


april is the cruelest month, is it not?

by tokyonightskies



Series: WidowReaper Week [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Canon-Typical Violence, Eye Contact, F/M, Guns, Robbery, Team Bonding, Teamwork, Trust, WidowReaper Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: She flicked her gaze from his mask, over the cartridges strapped across his chest, to the shotguns in their holsters at his hips, and then back at her rifle; the question in her eyes was content to remain unvoiced. There were flashes of lightning in the faraway distance and that meant rain. He tilted his head to the right, watching the road for any sign of their target. Two old-fashioned motorbikes came cruising ahead of a Lenco Bearcat that’s been out of use for three decades at least, resold for domestic purposes; the heavy rumble of their engines resounded through the open area, faintly at first, but gradually the noise became closer, and louder.One nod and they fell into motion together. She activated the infrared visors in her helmet and relayed to him how many enemies there were and what their positions in the vehicle were.





	april is the cruelest month, is it not?

**Author's Note:**

> WidowReaper Week, day 1: Catalyst
> 
> a spark, something that gets things started.

_._

When Talon first made use of his mercenary services, it was nothing more than _petty_ robbery.

What Reaper hadn’t expected however, was that Talon had assigned _Widowmaker_ to accompany him; she was already strapped in, sitting impassively on the metal bench in the hull of the drop ship. He seated himself opposite to her, back straight and arms crossed over his chest, and he didn’t exchange so much as a word with her during the flight.

When Reaper caught her watching him with her bright eyes, she seemed to regard him with the same kind cool curiosity of a cat looking down on an ant.

They were dispatched under cover of a rock formation, a couple of kilometers off the intersection between Route 95 and Palm Canyon road. It was close to nightfall when they finished their trek to the foot of a power pylon; the craggy teeth of mountain tops are clear-cut against the red horizon. It’s a hot, dry and dusty place, with its cracked underground, brownish-green scrubs and prickly pear cacti. The temperature dropped unexpectedly sometime after noon and the wind started to pick up.

Static rustled through the intercom when their handler told them the convoy would be arriving in the next twenty minutes.

Reaper watched disinterestedly how Widowmaker sunk to the ground, cross-legged, and began to check her ammunition, propped up the bipod and got into her position. They were both wearing camouflage, but while his uniform was strictly military, her skintight bodysuit reminded him of desert sand under the hot, midday sun, and her bluish skin contrasted the color nicely.

Something about lilacs and a dead land came to mind, but he couldn’t afford any distractions, so he shook off the thoughts with a shrug.

She flicked her gaze from his mask, over the cartridges strapped across his chest, to the shotguns in their holsters at his hips, and then back at her rifle; the question in her eyes was content to remain unvoiced. There were flashes of lightning in the faraway distance and that meant _rain_. He tilted his head to the right, watching the road for any sign of their target. Two old-fashioned motorbikes came cruising ahead of a Lenco Bearcat that’s been out of use for _three decades_ at least, resold for domestic purposes; the heavy rumble of their engines resounded through the open area, faintly at first, but gradually the noise became closer, and louder.

One nod and they fell into motion together. She activated the infrared visors in her helmet and relayed to him how many enemies there were and what their positions in the vehicle were.

Widowmaker settled back down on her stomach and glanced through her scope. The purple glare of her visors reflected harshly in the almost mellow darkness, like blood highlighted in UV light. Reaper didn’t delude himself into thinking the barrel of her rifle was to be aimed on enemy targets _only_ as he stepped forwards, towards the road.

He kept an eye on the moving Bearcat, grabbed his shotguns and teleported onto the roof.

He transmuted into wraith form and slipped through the crack of the open window. Hooked an arm around the driver’s neck. Aimed one of his shotguns to the armed guard in the passenger’s seat.

“ _Boo_ ,” Reaper deadpanned, head cocked to the side, and splattered the guard’s brains all over the front window with a buckshot. “You,” he addressed the driver then, “Slam the fucking brakes.”

When they came to a screeching halt, the trunk careened sharply to the left; Reaper heard a loud _clang_ , probably of a vault slamming against the solid partition with the driver’s seat, and two more _thuds_ , underscored by grunts and groans. _Guess they fell out of their seats_ , he thought smugly, before he grabbed the driver by the back of his head – claws digging into the skin – and repeatedly slammed him face-first against the steering wheel.

The high-pitched honks that followed caught the bikers’ attention.

Reaper clicked the door handle open and kicked the driver out of his seat – the driver, who was sporting a bloody nose and a bruised forehead by then, moaned gruffly when he collided harshly to the concrete. It started to drizzle when he climbed out of the Bearcat, and the faint grumble of thunder underscored the loud slam of the backdoors opening. He spared an unperturbed glance at the motorcycles racing his way – the bikers readying their uzis– and turned around, focusing on the three guards stampeding towards him.

“Leave them to me,” Reaper ordered brusquely, his breath hot against his own nose behind the mask, before he shifted into a swarm of shadowy tendrils and engulfed the last guard.

There was some crackling through the intercom, then the sound of her voice, accented, soft and slightly incredulous: “All of them?”

He got the last guard in a headlock, biceps straining against the kevlar fabric, barrel of a shotgun caressing the underside of the guy’s chin, the other one trained on another guard’s forehead. They were shell-shocked. He took the shot, and pieces of cranium, blood and brain matter splattered all over his mask, the vehicle and the struggling guard in his chokehold. Everything _reeks_.

“Take out the driver then,” he growled before pivoting on his heels and using the guard as a human shield against a spray of bullets from one of the bikers’ uzis. “I’m on _trial_ , remember?”

Widowmaker started to laugh: a cold, _scathing_ sound that would’ve gotten lost in the cacophony of gunshots and screeching tires and soft rainfall on his mask if it wasn’t for the fact that it echoed onwards between his own two ears. Reaper felt the guard kicking and struggling in his death throes. When the guy’s muscles went slack, he lunged forward, dropping the body to the ground. Pressed a shotgun to the remaining guard’s chest. Shot him point blank. Some pellets lodged themselves into the vehicle’s thick metallic door.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing one of the bikers rounding around the Bearcat’s trunk, and knew he couldn’t afford to keep his back exposed. He whirled around, both arms stretched out in front of him. Emptied his shotguns onto the motorbike’s front tire and aluminum frame.

It was a gamble and it paid off.

The biker lost his balance and came skidding down the slightly wet concrete, ending trapped under his motorcycle. Reaper threw away his shotguns and grabbed a new pair from his holsters. He tilted his head to the right when he heard the roar of the other motorcycle’s engine and the squeaking of the tires.

“We’re done here,” Reaper simply stated over the mic as he watched the motorbike drive off, and walked over to the biker wailing pitifully on the concrete; his back turned to the Bearcat and the driver, who had crawled over to one of the dead guards and staggered upwards. Reaper, uncaring, put his boot on the biker’s throat in warning. “ _Quiet you.”_

A single gunshot rang through the air, _staccato_ , followed by a heavy thud. He smirked behind his mask, not bothering to glance at the now- _undoubtedly dead_ driver.

He knocked the biker out cold and checked the vehicle’s trunk. According to Talon’s intel, the gold bars should’ve been stored in a vault. _Well there’s a vault_ , he thought wryly, nudging the thing with the steel-tipped toe of his boot, _but fuck if I know what’s really in there._ She caught up to him in the meantime, leaning against the doorway of the trunk with the bipod in her hand.

“Impressive,” Widowmaker praised – and while her tone of voice was cool and detached, there was the hint of a smile curved along her lips.

Her bright-eyed gaze lingered on his blood-stained gauntlets, then his chest, and his mask. _There’s something different about it,_ he thought. He cocked his head, challenging her to make a comment about his methods or their outcomes, about the _carnage_ ; but to his surprise, she raised her chin, propping a forearm against the doorframe, glancing at him with half-hooded eyes, and she _smiled_. Her smile was sharper than any mountaintop in the Arizona desert.

Reaper huffed, a little unsettled, and dryly asked, “ _So_ , … did I make the cut?”

“You certainly did _not_ disappoint.” Widowmaker laughed curtly – that harrowing, haughty sound again – and pushed herself off the doorframe. Looking at him from over her shoulder, she said, “ _Bienvenue chez_ Talon, Reaper.”

.


End file.
